


(i cradle in my hands) our brave hearts

by ayuminb



Series: S7! Canon Divergence Adventures [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Dany is crushing on Jon something fierce - kind of), (I do not bash her - I don't do that - but I'm not singing her praises either so), (consider yourselves warned), (except Jon - but we already knew that), (except they try to rationalize it - it doesn't work), (follows canon when it suits me - srsly if d&d can be picky then so can I), (so they're in denial - and that still doesn't work), (sort of - they do have their feelings on a tight leash), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dany Fans Beware, F/M, Idiots in Love, S7 E7 Spoilers, S7E7 Fix-It, Sort of Implied Mutual Pining, Starks to the Rescue, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Sansa goes to King’s Landing with one purpose only; things escalate from there.Or.In which the Starks come to the rescue, once again.





	(i cradle in my hands) our brave hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Timelines have been modified. So LF is dead already. Enjoy!

 

The silence hangs about her solar far longer than Sansa expected. She resists the urge to twiddle her thumbs, as she was wont to do as a child before being the perfect Lady became so important to her, and waits for Arya to let go of the parchment in her hands.

 

When she does let go, handing it over to Bran, who peruses it thoughtfully, Arya gives her a muted but definitely desperate look.

 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, I can’t believe it. Jon—Jon would never…”

 

“Bend the knee?” Bran asks, placidly, handing Sansa the scroll.

 

“Give away our home to a _foreign invader_ ,” Arya bits out. “Ignore all that we’ve suffered to get to where we are _now_ , and trade our freedom, _our safety_ , for three dragons and an army that will most likely freeze to death this far up North!”

 

Sansa hums in agreement; her eyes following the messy penmanship that she’s grown to know by heart now. Among the confusion, the letter is the strangest thing of these recent developments.

 

Jon has never been a man of many words, much like Father – much like any Northman. However, this letter is _much_ too long to deliver the message, almost as if Jon had been deliberately dragging it out instead of going for his much more usual, concise missives.

 

 _Why the flowery speech_ , she wonders, _what are you trying to say, Jon?_

 

As if this were not enough, a raven had arrived from Lord Tyrion, extending an invitation to King’s Landing, for an event that is scheduled to happen in a moon’s turn and a half.

 

Suddenly, it occurs to Sansa how lucky they truly are that this raven came a fortnight after the remaining Starks managed to outwit and execute Littlefinger. For surely, he would have found a way to find out about Jon’s latest folly, would use it to his advantage – would have everyone in the North crying out for blood; _his_ blood.

 

“Jon would never,” says Arya, more forcefully than before, “ _my brother_ would never.”

 

No, Jon would _never_. Not knowing the price they have all paid—not when he’s seen the scars such a price left behind on her very skin—for their independence. No.

 

And yet.

 

Sansa feels her chest constrict as her gaze lands on her little sister. And she _knows_ , with frightening certainty, that once her head is done processing this information – once she’s done trying to work this out, the crushing sadness and sense of betrayal will consume her as well.

 

She’s about to offer her comfort when she’s interrupted.

 

“Sansa, would you give me back the scroll, please?”

 

Bran’s abruptness puzzles her, but she does as he asked. He straightens the parchment over her desk, smoothing it out, and then traces the words with his fingers. His focus is intense enough to spark her curiosity, and Sansa leans closer to her little brother.

 

It’s Arya the one to ask, though.

 

“Did you see something?”

 

This Three-Eyed Raven business is almost— _almost_ —common enough in Winterfell by now. Enough that when Bran says ‘yes’, neither she nor Arya are surprised.

 

“Well, what was it?”

 

Bran ignores Arya in lieu of piercing Sansa with a speculative look. “Who’s Ygritte?”

 

She’s taken aback, so much that she blurts out information she knows is not hers to give. “Jon’s wildling lover,” she stops and cringes a little; she’s been trying to drop the use of that word for a while now. “He fell in love with her while he lived among the Free Folk.”

 

“He lived among the Wildlings?”

 

“He was still part of the Night’s Watch,” says Sansa, but nods at her sister anyway, explaining further. “He was tasked with infiltrating their ranks to gather information about them.”

 

Arya turns to Bran once again. “Is that what you saw?”

 

One of his fingers is tracing random letters among the parchment when he shakes his head. “I heard a whisper of that name, and then I saw a woman burning – unmoving, and pale, and with hair as bright as fire.”

 

 _“The Free Folk think it’s lucky,”_ his voice, suddenly, ringing out the back of her conscious; a night so long ago but one Sansa will forever carry among her most treasured memories. _“Your hair. Kissed by fire, they say.”_

 

She pushes the memory of that night—the warmth, the comfort, the safety, and _Jon_ —quickly to the back of her mind, and says, “that’s Ygritte.”

 

Bran taps the parchment then, looking up at them, and says, “Jon has made certain letters stand out and—”

 

Sansa leans closer, her eyes picking up the differences rather quickly now that she knows what to look for, and _freezes_ —hears only the beat of her heart thundering in her ears, feels the blood drain from her face, sees the world sways before he eyes. In fact, she is only vaguely aware of her siblings trying to get her attention.

 

But she can’t _respond_ ; feels dread claw its way up her chest and wrap its icy fingers around her throat as the sudden realization of _why_ Jon has decided to use an excess of words hits her. With enough force to leave her breathless and faint.

 

_He’s fallen in love…?_

 

“No.”

 

Her brother’s voice carries enough strength to drag her mind back into the present; Sansa blinks and finds herself incredibly reassured though she cannot tell why. Arya stands next to her, looking worried as she grips her elbow.

 

“Look closely,” Bran says and starts tapping what appears to be random spots on the parchment; the bolded letters are subtle enough not to draw attention, but noticeable if one knows what to look for.

 

Sansa follows her brother’s motions.

 

**N-O-T-Y-G-R-I-T-T-E**

 

The relief is overwhelming and she lets herself fall back on her chair, determined to ignore all the _reasons_ behind her reactions. There’s not time for soul-searching now; there’s no need for it.

 

 _It’s because I am relieved that he will not follow Robb’s steps_ , she thinks, _because then the Lords and Ladies will not turn their back on him, or us._

 

“Not Ygritte,” Arya states, tapping her finger against the desk, as she looks at her. “You said he infiltrated the Wildlings and, in the process, fell in love with this Ygritte.”

 

“Yes.” It is what Jon had told her, once they started sharing—little by little—their stories.

 

“So this can mean he has ‘infiltrated’ into the Dragon Queen’s camp and has not fallen in love, or,” her sister pauses, frowning down at the missive, “he has done the exact opposite.”

 

Not infiltrating, but falling in love instead.

 

“It would not explain his bending the knee,” says Bran, tilting his head back a minute, and closing his eyes for another before opening them. “He did not betray the Night’s Watch in the end, not even for love; there’s no precedent for him to do so now. There’s no reason.”

 

“Maybe he wasn’t given a choice.”

 

Sansa shakes her head at Arya. “If that were the case, the Wight Hunt—stupid as it was—would have given him a chance to get away from her. All of his letters prior to the Hunt were very clear; he was not going to bend the knee.”

 

“Something happened then.”

 

Then, Bran straightens in his chair, hissing – startling her and Arya in the process because they’ve been slowly growing used to the near emptiness in their brother.

 

He gives them a conflicted look. “They lost a dragon. The Wight Hunt cost them a _dragon_.”

 

If Sansa were any less a Lady, she would join Arya in her cursing, would spit out some of the foul words she had hear in King’s Landing. Instead, she clasps her hands atop the desk, and glares at the surface, before letting her eyes drift to the side – to Lord Tyrion’s scroll.

 

 _His_ idea, Sansa knows that much – surmised as much from Jon’s last missive before the Hunt. A _stupid_ idea that almost cost Jon his life, and might cost them the realm’s safety.

 

Already seems to have cost the North its independence.

 

Bran is very still for a while, and they know better than to interrupt him; and once again, their empty brother explodes in a burst of emotions as he curses himself.

 

“Bran?”

 

“The Night King has gained control of the fallen dragon,” his voice is, blessedly even if the circumstances are less than desirable, taut with emotion. “Their excursion beyond The Wall has made things even more complicated for us.”

 

“This… the Night King,” Arya, she knows, while believes everything about the horrors coming for them all, still struggles to wrap her head around it. “You’re saying he could just… fly over The Wall and come at us at any time now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Seven hells,” Arya rubs her temples. “Of all the asinine shit—”

 

“Language,” the gentle scolding slips out before she can properly process it, but there’s been enough cursing already.

 

Arya scrunches up her nose and sticks out her tongue at her and after a while, they smile. Bran reaches over to grab some parchment and a quill, and starts writing quickly. He spends a few minutes on it, before rolling up and sealing the letter. Then he looks at her, and Sansa wishes he would not say what she knows will come out of his mouth.

 

“Sansa, you need to go to King’s Landing, give this to Jon,” he hands her the scroll, and grabs her hands tightly, “and bring him back.”

 

“She’s the Lady of Winterfell, she can’t go!” Arya gives him an incredulous look. “This is what Cersei wants—what they all wants! It’s not safe!”

 

“It will be fine. Nothing will happen to her, Jon won’t allow it.”

 

“And what of her responsibilities?”

 

“We’ll take care of everything while she’s away, but it must be her, Arya. We cannot afford alienating our enemies further and well,” were this a different day, a different _topic_ , Sansa would rejoice at this ongoing display of emotions from Bran; he even sounds remorseful. “Sansa knows how to navigate Southron politics better than anyone in the North now.”

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“Nor I, Arya, but it is necessary. Jon will listen to her and he will keep her safe.”

 

“If you’re quite done talking as if I am not here.”

 

Sansa eyes the scroll, feels anger and dread mingle in her gut. Of course— _of course_ she would break another promise she made to herself because of Jon. She had broken her promise never to rely on Littlefinger again because Jon had refused to listen to her.

 

So, of course, she’d end up venturing South for him.

 

_Oh but I would slap him if he were here._

 

He is not, and therein lies the problem.

 

“Very well,” she says at last, resolute, “I will go.”

 

“Best to gather our bannermen in the Great Hall, then, so we might inform them of this decision.”

 

Before he can say more, or revert to being the Three-Eyed Raven, Sansa seizes his hand, waving the scroll between them.

 

“But first you’ll tell me what’s written here.”

 

Her tone makes it clear; she is not taking a negative answer.

 

*****

 

She leaves at dawn.

 

The Lords and Ladies had, understandably, not been happy with the decision—had not been happy that _she_ is the one to go South. But between the three of them—maybe because it was the last remaining Starks taking charge of the situation—they had not protested much.

 

Lord Royce had wanted to accompany her, but Sansa had sensibly told him Arya and Bran needed his help; he insisted that the small party to accompany her be made of Vale Knights loyal to him, instead.

 

She travels for a moonturn and a half to King’s Landing; there’s a brief stop at Riverrun, where she meets Uncle Edmure and he tells her that he will have the Riverlands properly ready to pledge their alliance to her on her way back.

 

Sansa had so wanted to correct him, say he ought to pledge to King Jon, but she knows she would have needed time to convince him and time is not a luxury she has now. Nor is a peace of mind – yet another luxury she’s forfeited during journey, not because of what she might encounter once she arrives properly at the Dragon Pit. But for the piece of knowledge she’d demanded from Bran the day before departing.

 

Perhaps, remaining ignorant would have been for the best.

 

Perhaps then, she would still have control over her thoughts; they would not wander into dangerous territory—hoping and wanting and _imagining_ —with such frequency. Perhaps then, she would not be setting herself up for what, Sansa is sure, is definitely a heartbreaking situation.

 

 _Focus on the task_ , she thinks, _withstand this mummer’s show and take Jon back to Winterfell._

 

Ghost’s sudden restlessness startles her mare, snapping her out of her thoughts. The great direwolf had refused to stay behind; trusting the developing connection she had acquired with Ghost, Sansa had begged him—she didn’t want to think of the possibility of having a repeat of what happened to Lady—even _Arya_ had begged.

 

Ghost hadn’t been moved; Bran had not really helped, only reminded her that Jon had entrusted his direwolf with her care.

 

 _“Even if I were to force him to stay,”_ Bran had said, _“the moment I turn my attention elsewhere he would have gone after you.”_

 

Standing taller than her mount, Sansa only has to extend her hand to scratch the him behind his ear. Considering everything, she’s quite happy to have him with her. Feels safer.

 

“My Lady,” says Brienne, drawing her attention to her, “it seems we will have an escort.”

 

The Vale Knights start mumbling disparaging comments about their quickly approaching escort, to which Sansa responds with a reproachful glance that effectively shuts them up. It would not do to starts this meeting with the wrong foot.

 

“Please, Sers,” she begins, “we have a very specific task to accomplish here. Insulting Queen Cersei’s brother will do us no favors.”

 

She hears a mumbled ‘Kingslayer’ before Brienne snaps at them, and then there’s silence. She knows her Sworn Shield had grown to despise that moniker, though Sansa suspects it is the tamest thing Jaime Lannister has been called in his life.

 

Once he stops before her small retinue, Ser Jaime bows his head respectfully. “Lady Stark,” he says, glances over her shoulder, “Lady Brienne, Sers, welcome to King’s Landing,” and then he stops, casting a quick glance to Ghost and his bared teeth. “I must admit I expected the Lady of Winterfell to travel with a… larger company, though I suppose I can see why that’s not really necessary.”

 

Ghost threatens to leap forth, his muscles tensing, so Sansa tightens her grip on the fur above his neck. “Ser Jaime, I hope we are not too late.”

 

He cannot suppress his surprise fast enough for her to miss it, probably remembering her as the naive little girl she once was, then gives her a gallant smile—a smile she recognizes, would say it’s the very same, were it not for the missing cruel glint on those eyes.

 

“Of course not, Lady Stark, you are just in time,” Ser Jaime turns his horse around, motioning for them to follow. “We’ve sent escorts to the docks, as well; Jon Snow has just arrived.”

 

“Oh, it’s good hear that,” she pauses, permits herself a little smile to gauge his reaction and then, “I’ve missed my brother dearly, I cannot wait to see him again.”

 

There, the shock; again, it is quick to be hidden but not enough for her to miss it. He was not expecting that. Of course not, before— _before_ , she had not been close to Jon, at all; didn’t speak to him or about him while the royal party had stayed at Winterfell.

 

From what little Ser Jaime knows about her, what he’s probably been told to expect, this isn’t it.

 

 _Better this way, let them think I’m the same stupid little girl they used to know_ , a penchant for theatrics is one of the things Littlefinger enjoyed most, she knows, and the only one out of all his lessons she’s willing to adopt with gusto. _They won’t be thinking that for long._

 

He leads them towards the Pit at a sedate pace, and stays with them while they wait. Sansa chooses to ignore the tension flowing between Ser Jaime and Brienne, and focus on the dilapidated Pit. They’re the first to arrive, obviously, but not for long.

 

As Ghost leaps away from her, towards the path they’ve just come through, Sansa sees the Queensguard approaching. She focuses her eyes on them; hears the startled shouts of some men and then a very dear, very distinctive voice:

 

_“Ghost!?”_

 

Cersei enters the Pit at the same time a commotion arises from the path off to the side; their eyes lock, and Sansa is rewarded with a glint of surprise before Cersei puts up her placid mask. She will take that as a small victory.

 

Her blood thrums then, feels the hairs on the back of her neck raise and knows Jon has caught sight of her. Ser Jaime bows and moves quickly towards his sister, and Sansa steels herself as she turns to the approaching form of the King in the North, determined to give nothing away.

 

A part of her knows, however, Jon will make her falter once again.

 

*****

 

Joy is not what he feels when Ghost appears suddenly at the end of the path, scaring the men surrounding him as he breaks into a run. No, Jon feels only worry, only _dread_ , because Ghost being here means one thing – Sansa.

 

Sansa is here, in King’s Landing, when she should’ve been behind the walls of Winterfell, _safe_.

 

Then he feels rage, thinking maybe—maybe this is Littlefinger’s doing. Perhaps the traitorous rat managed to convince her to come.

 

He barely allows Ghost to bump his shoulder before breaking off into a run himself, his loyal companion trotting after him and ensuring no one would stop him. Ghost, who’s so much bigger than he remembered – has it really been that long since he’s left Winterfell?

 

Jon doesn’t process much of what he sees once entering the Pit. He has enough presence of mind to slow his running to a brisk walk, but everything else fall to the background once he spots _Sansa_.

 

The sight of her is powerful enough that he nearly stumbles, dear and sweet enough that he forgets himself—Gods above, how he’s missed her—forgets those surrounding them and goes to embrace her.

 

Clearly, Sansa suffers from no such impulses, for once he’s close enough, she turns to face him and drops into a curtsy.

 

“My King,” she says, her voice rings out clearly—he swallows the urge to correct her, can feel the eyes of Daenerys’ council boring holes on his back, because this either means she’s rejecting the meaning of his letter or she never got the letter at all.

 

_Another of Littlefinger’s ploys?_

 

However, when Sansa raises, she pierces him with a _look_ ; Jon knows there is no meddling from Littlefinger here, no, this is all his dear sister’s work.

 

 _She’s making an statement_ , he realizes, _but of what? And why? What dangerous game are you playing now, Sansa?_

 

The way she looks at him, _Gods_ , the way it makes him feel—heat blooming on his cheeks and—he shuffles a little, gives her a nod and clear his throat. “Lady Sansa.”

 

There’s a beat, where nothing happens, before Sansa turns to face Cersei again, who’s sitting on an elevated chair, and curtsies again. “Your Grace,” she says, almost as an afterthought.

 

Graceful, she stands; tall and imposing, _regal_.

 

Jon fights the sudden urge to fall at her feet, beg forgiveness—his folly a heavy weight on his shoulders.

 

“Lady Stark,” Cersei’s voice is smooth and pleasant; _why_ , were it not for her reputation, one could almost think her _happy_ to see Sansa. “Or is it Lady Bolton?”

 

The rolling waves of rage at the perceived mockery—one he does not remember acknowledging—has him gripping the pommel of Longclaw, muscles tensing and ready to leap forward when Sansa throws an arm across his chest.

 

Or so it seems.

 

Because then he hears it, so low Jon thinks it his imagination – Ghost is growling next to him, and Sansa, standing on his other side, places a gentle hand on his furry neck.

 

 _Ghost. She reacted because of Ghost_ , he thinks, realizes that the rage comes from his direwolf; not a good thing, he knows, _this_. His emotions regarding Sansa are hard enough to control as it _is_ , Jon doesn’t need to add Ghost’s fierce sense of protection to the mix.

 

“Certainly not Lady Lannister,” the words cut across his musings, sharp and entirely too sweet. “Lady Stark will do, Your Grace.”

 

He shoots a quick glance at his sister, eyebrows lifted, he cannot hide his shock – nor can anyone else for that matter. Brienne, Podrick, and the Vale Knights look down in an attempt to hide their smiles of pride; Tyrion hisses as he casts looks between the Ladies, as does Varys, as does Theon though Jon can see the hints of a smile as well on the Ironborn’s face; the Kingslayer does not smile, but he is shocked. Then there’s Euron Greyjoy, grinning as if enjoying the show too much.

 

Cersei lifts her chin, and that is as much as she does in response. Then she turns to Tyrion, her gaze hardens rather obviously. “Where is your Queen?”

 

“She will be here, shortly.”

 

Sansa looks at him curiously, but doesn’t press for details. Jon ignores the brief exchange between the estranged Lannisters—doesn’t really have a choice, as his focus zeroes in on the hand prying his fingers open. _Oh_ , he hadn’t realized he was still gripping Longclaw.

 

Jon meets her eyes, wishing to soothe the worry swimming below her carefully constructed façade; he waits.

 

“I need to speak with you,” she says, and adds, “it cannot wait, Jon.”

 

How sweet sounds his name on her lips, and how very poor is his ability to control his own thoughts now. It should not be, he reasons, distance should have made things easier.

 

_My sister. Sansa is my sister._

 

Taking a fortifying breath, he nods and allows her to lead him off to the edges of the Pit by the wrist. Sansa gives a nod to Brienne, and then they are alone – as alone as they can be, given their current location. A whispered conversation, it seems, is in order.

 

Ghost follows them, probably to keep carrying out the only request Jon has ever asked of him. The direwolf circles them, sniffs the ground, lops onto the walls and then jumps down – repeats the process with enough randomness to be unpredictable.

 

“I will hazard a guess, and say your ploy of bending the knee did not go as you expected,” she begins.

 

Jon could have sagged for the sheer relief he feels then. “No. _No_ , it did not,” rubs his face, suddenly so very tired of everything. “I’m glad you could…”

 

“I didn’t, at first. It took a joint effort to get your meaning.”

 

“Ah,” a pause. “Arya and Bran… how are they?”

 

“Good, they’re good,” she cuts herself off, taking a quick breath, then stops and licks her lips. “ _Different_ , but good. They miss you, especially Arya.”

 

“I miss them, too,” he says and considers if he should ask after her—he probably shouldn’t, not really.

 

_Why not? I am her brother; I am allowed to ask if she missed me. There’s nothing wrong with that._

 

“I’ve missed you,” Sansa says, squeezing his wrist and, _oh_ , he’d forgotten she had a hold of it, “so very _much_ , Jon.”

 

The way his chest threatens to burst open—he sways forward, his hands itch to touch her, his lips yearn to press against her skin—is answer enough to his troubled thoughts, because, _yes_ , there is everything wrong with that.

 

“Gods, Sansa…”

 

His head drops forward, pressing their foreheads together, and closes his eyes; he endeavors to let that contact be all there is between them. And maybe, just maybe, the exhaustion is getting to him—it must, after so many months of restless nights—because her mask begins to crumble and, slowly, the concern leaks through the ever widening cracks.

 

Jon shifts, until he forms a veritable wall between their too curious audience and Sansa – let them stare at his back, he thinks, and not at his tender-hearted sister.

 

He feels the brush of her fingers swipe gently under his eyes, prompting them open.

 

“Jon, what happened?”

 

The words spill from his lips faster than he can anticipate: from Tyrion’s hatching of the plan to venture beyond The Wall, to him actually _agreeing_ despite knowing it was a terrible, terrible idea—the actual Hunt, Daenerys coming to the rescue, losing one of the dragons.

 

Uncle Benjen.

 

And then.

 

“What else could I do?” he asks as he pulls back a little, rubbing his face, exasperated. “I’ve just watched the dragons in action—watched the Night King take down one of them as if it was nothing. Was revenge going to be enough to keep her invested in this? I really didn’t know. I still don’t. I… I don’t think I trust her to keep her word.”

 

Sansa frowns, looks at the ground thoughtfully, before focusing on him again. “You weren’t expecting her to tell anybody, were you? About you bending the knee?”

 

He cringes. “No, I thought, since I spoke while we were alone, it was going to remain a private matter until after the upcoming Wars.”

 

“Oh, Jon…”

 

“That is why I sent you that missive.”

 

She lets go of his wrist then, looking suddenly regretful as she toys with the chain adorning her dress. And just like that, Jon knows that whatever news she’s about to deliver, will be disastrous.

 

*****

 

Sansa wishes she could take the words back, wishes she could shield Jon from the truths she had been entrusted to share. But Bran had been very persistent, that Jon needed to hear them before the meeting began.

 

And well, the Dragon Queen’s absence seems to be giving them the only time they’ll have for it.

 

She had kept a careful distance—or as much as she could—from him so far, but fears it won’t last long. It definitely had been too much, the reveal: the Night King gaining control of the fallen dragon, the ploy to bring about Littlefinger’s death—his true parentage.

 

_Oh, Jon._

 

It is too much, too soon.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He looks up, crumpling the parchment as he fists his hand; the pain etched in his face makes her chest constrict horribly.

 

“I’m so sorry, Jon.”

 

“Why? It’s not like this is your fault,” he swallows, looks down at his hand, and frowns. “It’s not you the one who lied.”

 

She shrugs, wanting to hug him but sensing it would not be appropriate—just, not now.

 

“You should accept it, Sansa,” he says suddenly. “The North wants to make you their Queen, you should accept it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Listen—”

 

“No. No, I won’t,” whatever she expected his reaction to be, it certainly isn’t this. “ _Jon_ , I haven’t spent the last moons securing your hold on the North for you to throw it away like this, or any other way.”

 

He goes to talk, surely to justify his reasoning, but she will not have it.

 

“Why do you think I had to ask Arya and Bran to help me take down Littlefinger? I could have done it myself, but it would have taken so much _longer_ and he was already poisoning our people with doubts about you, Jon—”

 

“I’m not a Stark.”

 

“You _are_ to _me_ ,” she says, forcefully, “you are to Bran, to Arya.”

 

“The North will never accept it,” he snaps back, anger and pain coloring his voice, and Ghost reacts accordingly—having spent the last few minutes sitting next to them, he start pacing restlessly again. “The very reason why they chose me— _a lie_. I am not Ned Stark’s bastard, I’m a—”

 

Sansa doesn’t think, just lurches forward. She’s not even completely aware of what she’s done until she feels her feet leave the ground when he lifts her. She wraps her arms more securely around his shoulders, breathing him in as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

 

His arms wrap around herself just as tightly.

 

“You’re Jon,” she whispers, right against his neck. “You’re _Jon_ and you’re a wolf of the North, of Winterfell. It doesn’t matter who fathered you, Eddard Stark raised you and loved you as his own son, and that is enough.”

 

“Sansa,” his voice breaks, and she dearly wishes they were someplace else.

                                                                                    

“You are part of our pack, never forget that. Never doubt that.”

 

His lips brush the skin bellow her ear, in what she can only assume is another broken rendition of her name. The pleasure that shoots down her spine is only shameful because he is hurting – because she dares to find a positive aspect among the pain he feels at having the very foundations of his existence ripped off his feet.

 

There’s none of the revulsion and self-loathing that would have followed, once upon a time, _before_ Bran had unveiled the one truth Father took to his grave. None of the need to justify what she feels.

 

It is then that a shadow passes over the Pit, and Sansa doesn’t need to look up to know Daenerys Targaryen has arrived with her dragons in tow. She needs only to hear the collective gasp, see her knights shift their stances as they grab the pommel of their swords – face flickering with fear but ultimately determined to stand their ground.

 

She only needs to feel Jon’s body go tight with tension and Ghost grow agitated as he stops by their side, bracing his paws on the ground as if ready to pounce.

 

It all goes ignored, for now, as Sansa raises her head a little to press her cheek against his, and whisper in his ear the last message that had been entrusted to her; meant to lift his spirits.

 

“Arya asked me to tell you,” she begins, her blue eyes locked on the biggest dragon that lands on the opposite edge of the Pit and its raider, “that if you call her _anything_ but little sister when you see her, she’s going to punch you.”

 

A smile blooms, uninhibited, on her face once Jon lets out a startled laugh; she knows it is not enough to take away his pain completely, but it is a step—small, but a step nonetheless.

 

Sensing their time has come to an end, he deposits her back on the ground. Sansa goes willingly, but not before locking gazes with the Dragon Queen.

 

Once there’s a respectable distance between them, she looks up into his eyes, and nods approvingly. Jon might not be the best at controlling his emotions, not when they run rampant as they are now, but he is surprisingly good at making everyone believe his stoicism and solemnness is just his natural expression.

 

They will see him now, and assume he’s brooding; no one truly familiar with him as she is to think otherwise.

 

Before she moves away from him, and back into their designated pavilion, he stops her with a quick touch to her wrist.

 

“And what… shall I call you?”

 

*****

 

He gives the seat to Sansa.

 

Not only because it is the chivalrous thing to do – it’s because even if there _were_ another chair, he would not take it now, as restless as he is to get this meeting over with. To get Sansa as far from King’s Landing as he possibly can, from Cersei and the worryingly blank looks she throws in their direction.

 

Gods, he really needs to put his emotions on a tight leash.

 

It doesn’t help, either, that he cannot concentrate.

 

The Hound brings out the box, opens it, topples it over and the wight comes out—Ghost leaps in front of Sansa ready to attack had the thing dared get any close, but the wight goes for Cersei. The fear on her face is a relief if one that is short lived; he has to hand it to her, the woman knows how to control her expressions all too well.

 

But even as this happens, even as he steps forth to demonstrate how they can kill this abominations – his mind wanders.

 

_Cousin._

 

She had looked at him the same way she did that first night at Castle Black, after he said ‘where will we go?’. Gave him the same tender look she gifted him with as they walked through the ramparts, and told him he was nothing like Joffrey, that he was _good_ at ruling.

 

She’d looked at him, intently, and said: _“Cousin will do, my King.”_

 

Cousin.

 

Once everything is said and done, Jon walks back to Sansa’s side and waits for Cersei to give them her answer. He avoids Daenerys searching gaze, Tyrion’s speculative eyes; keeps his focus on Cersei as she stares at the wight.

 

He has a sudden, sinking feeling that all of this is for naught. That they would leave this place with nothing to show for every sacrifice that’s been made. That he has helped deliver the Night King a fucking dragon for nothing at all and—

 

—and.

 

_It doesn’t have to be for nothing._

 

A gamble, a dangerous one, but truly, Jon feels like taking the passive route is no longer viable. He knows Daenerys will not simply abandon her quest for the Iron Throne, not even after seeing what’s marching on them all, not even after losing one of her _children_ —not unless she has absolute certainty that she will _have it_ once the Army of the Dead is defeated. Knows Cersei will most likely turn her back on any accord they manage to forge now the moment they leave King’s Landing – _if_ they even managed to leave, he cannot discount the possibility he’s just stepped into a trap, that he’s forced _Sansa_ to step into one.

 

Bran had said much in his letter; Jon had only really focused on the one thing that shook him to the core, but he read it all. Full disclosure about what happened beyond The Wall is his brother’s advice, because his word will mean _something_.

 

And Jon wants to laugh, suddenly, inexplicably – of course, of _course_ yet another Stark would come to save him from his follies.

 

_Fear and desperation tend to force people to do unspeakable things._

 

Jon would _know_ , he still feels the words he’d uttered in that cabin like ashes in his mouth—he’s never been one to enjoy lies, even if they were necessary. Not that it did much good, he thinks, chances a look across the Pit, and sees the tension lingering as they all wait for Cersei’s final word.

 

_I am tired._

 

So, so tired of measuring his words, his reactions—he’s no stranger to keeping quite, to playing a part, but by the Old Gods, not even when infiltrated in the Free Folk’s camp did he have to be so bloody careful.

 

“There’s one more thing, Your Grace,” his voice seems to boom around them, loud and clear and so very ominous; he looks at Daenerys before setting his eyes on Cersei.

 

“What else is there to show?”

 

“Not show, just convey a message,” a pause, he settles his hand on the back of Sansa’s chair and grips it tightly. “The reason why Lady Sansa came to King’s Landing against my wishes.”

 

Let that hang; it’s not exactly a truth, but neither it is a lie. Jon had never wanted to see Sansa in this place again.

 

She looks at him now, mildly surprised, but says nothing and remains calm, so he proceeds.

 

“The risk we took to capture that wight was great. But I chose to do it regardless, because there really is no other way to explain what is currently marching on us,” Jon says, voice steady and commanding. “You _needed_ to see it with your own eyes to believe it, and still, I see you hesitating.”

 

He looks around him, unyielding; levels a hard gaze on Euron Greyjoy, who simply smirks in return, then on Cersei and finally on Daenerys.

 

“You still fail to find reason enough to turn your armies North, to put aside petty squabbles over a bloody throne that will most certainly be lost if _we don’t work together_.” He walks forth, only a few steps, and continues, “we lost more than good men during the Hunt. We also lost a dragon.”

 

There’s a collective gasp; Cersei’s mask slips for more than a brief moment before her expression hardens. Fear; Jon is sure that’s what it was.

 

 _She’s afraid_ , he thinks, tentatively triumphant, _she knows I’m not lying._

 

Tyrion hisses and hasten to his side, lifting his hands in a placating manner. “My Lord—”

 

“ _Your Grace_ , you mean, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa’s voice cuts across any other protest. “King Jon has not bent the knee, to the best of my knowledge; you shall address him by his proper title.”

 

“Lady Sansa, actually—”

 

Daenerys stands then, looking mightily annoyed and terrifying if only because Drogon shift menacingly behind her. “He told me he _would_. He gave me his word.”

 

“But did he? There are protocols to follow in such cases for a reason, Your Grace,” Sansa, too, stands up—Ghost, at her side, starts growling. “Were those protocols followed?”

 

“No,” says Tyrion, shifting, looking as if the words pain him, “they were not.”

 

“Then you shall address my _brother_ by his proper title.”

 

Before the discussion can prolong, take a turn for the worst, before Jon snaps at them to focus on the important matter at hand, Cersei stands, walks forward, her hulking Sworn Shield and the Kingslayer tagging along.

 

“You lost a dragon.”

 

“Aye, we lost a dragon,” says Jon, “and we could have lost more if we hadn’t made a hasty retreat. We did all of that, we risked _everything_ , to bring you the proof you wanted.”

 

He says no more, his meaning clear; the reproach rings loud in the ensuing silence – is the Iron Throne worth it?

 

“It’s not only that they lost one,” says Sansa, glancing around with a surprisingly open expression, “the Night King has taken control of it. There is absolutely nothing preventing him to simply fly over The Wall and come at us now.”

 

“Not even being surrounded by water will help. We must take the fight to them, before it’s too late.”

 

Cersei arches an eyebrow, looking entirely unbothered and were it not for the fear he knows lurks beneath her mask, he would be convinced by her unflappable stance. “I could simply flee to Essos.”

 

“Aye, you could,” he replies, taking a step closer to her, ignoring the reaction of her guards. “You _could_ , and if that is your answer, I’d rather you _would_ ,” he steps back, and back until he’s standing next to Sansa. “But mark my words; if the North falls, the rest of Westeros will follow and then there’ll be nowhere to run, nor hide. Not even the Narrow Sea will keep you safe because the Death will never retreat.”

 

Then, turning to Sansa, he says, “I’m done talking.”

 

“Jon?”

 

“We’re _done_ here,” he states, lets the anger color his words. “I am _done_ trying to appeal to their good hearts or their duty to their people—even their bloody common sense—when it’s clear they don’t even care. We’re done.”

 

All those surrounding them neatly mirror her sharp intake of breath. He takes the monetary shock and starts leading Sansa away by pressing his hand gently on her back.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Daenerys’ demand comes, just as he expected, and he looks over his shoulder to deliver his answer.

 

“Home, to help my people prepare for everything that’s to come, as I should have been doing this whole damn time.”

 

And they leave the Dragon Pit behind.

 

Brienne sends Podrick and two of the Knights of the Vale ahead to retrieve their horses and prepare for their return. Jon keeps a steady hand on Sansa’s back, not pushing but enough to keep her pace even with him. Ser Davos walks with a frown on his other side, but chooses to remain silent, something he appreciates.

 

After they are far enough down the path, with no one but Ghost following them, Sansa talks. “Please… _please_ tell that what happened back there was another one of your ploys.”

 

“More of a gamble, actually.”

 

“ _Jon_.”

 

“Your Grace, if I may speak honestly,” says Ser Davos.

 

“Go ahead, Ser Davos.”

 

“You have just thrown away several moons of hard work for Queen Daenerys support.”

 

“He threw away precious time, from where I am standing, on a fool’s errand, Ser Davos,” says Sansa, “ _time_ that should have been spent helping me prepare our people.”

 

“Reports indicate that you’ve done a splendid job, my Lady.”

 

“Thank you, I’ve done my best, but that is only so much. I know nothing of battle planning, and the Lords who do; they know nothing of our enemy.”

 

“Which is why we need those dragons, my Lady.”

 

“Forgive me, Ser Davos, but it seems to me the dragons might be more of a liability now. If the… Night King is invulnerable to them, we might be better off without their help.”

 

“And what of her armies? We still need her numbers and we probably lost them,” Ser Davos huffs, looking frustrated. “As of now, all we have to gain from this endeavor is the dragonglass, and that might be cut off soon enough.”

 

Jon frowns because yes, he’d thought of that as well. “How many shipments of dragonglass have we received since I sent you the first raven?”

 

Sansa hums thoughtfully, then looks at Brienne. “It’s been six shipments, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“Yes, my Lady. And another was scheduled to arrive at Winterfell a fortnight after our departure.”

 

“Your Grace—”

 

“Ser Davos.”

 

They stop once they’re clear off the path leading to the Dragon Pit, where it splits in two. Off to one side is Daenerys’s ship safely docked, the other side leads to the stables and there comes Podrick and the Knights of the Vale with several horses. Jon can only surmise that they acquired some extra mounts.

 

“I realized something, while we were back there,” he says, and turns to Sansa. “You know her best, so tell me truly, Sansa, was Cersei going to agree to a truce while we fought the White Walkers?”

 

“Whether she agreed or not is irrelevant, the question is if she was going to honor the agreement and I don’t think she would have.”

 

Jon nods and faces his Hand. “Queen Daenerys will not agree to march North if there’s even the slightest chance that Cersei might use such absence to her advantage.”

 

“But, if you were to promise her—”

 

“I should not have to promise anything in exchange for her help!” He doesn’t mean the outburst, truly, but Jon is _tired_ of having to compromise on this. “She’s not doing us a favor!”

 

Sansa smiles at him, something akin to pride shining in her eyes. “It pleases me that you seem to finally realize that, Your Grace.”

 

It’s good to enjoy her praise without having to rationalize it – without the guilt and shame because he knows there’s more to his enjoyment than it should be proper for siblings.

 

_But we’re not siblings._

 

Jon stomps down those thought before the grief can latch onto him; there’ll be time for that, _later_ , once he had the time to mourn—to _process_ Bran’s revelation. A part of him—the small, _selfish_ part of him—the part that wants and wants and wants is happy, _so very happy_. But the bigger part, the rest of him – he cannot afford himself to fall into despair just yet, perhaps not for a long time.

 

_Where did the time go? So much has already been wasted…_

 

So many mistakes have been made that complicate the upcoming fight so much more now.

 

“Well, at the very least, let us be ready for the worse,” says Ser Davos, pulling him back from his musings. “If she doesn’t turn her armies and her dragons on _us_ , we will be going back without the numbers we expeced.”

 

“We _will_ have some numbers once we start traveling North,” Sansa looks slightly nervous, but mostly relieved as she delivers the news. “My Uncle Edmure said the Riverlands would pledge to our cause.”

 

“They will pledge to you,” he corrects, because he knows it to be true.

 

The Riverlands pledged to Robb, named him King of the Trident due to his Tully blood; they will do the same now for Sansa, for the same reasons. It suddenly occurs to Jon that, between he and Sansa, they hold three of the seven Kingdoms Daenerys so wants to rule.

 

_I can’t foresee a scenario where she will be happy with this situation._

 

“Uncle Edmure will pledge to you, once I have the time to convince him,” she tells him reassuringly, squeezing his arm.

 

Before more words can be said, Ghost starts growling as he faces the path leading towards the Pit. And there, he’ll have his answer soon enough, as to whether his gamble will pay off – because the Dragon Queen approaches at a brisk pace.

 

*****

 

She doesn’t know what to think; the meeting has given a turn for the unexpected and she tries to make sense of it all.

 

Her advisors are as adrift as she, and as Daenerys watches the retreating form of the King in the North she feels something akin to loss before it is overwhelmed by righteous rage.

 

“How is it you failed to inform me that Jon Snow has a lover?”

 

Tyrion shifts uncomfortably. “A lover, Your Grace?”

 

She glares at the empty path; the initial plan for her to arrive a little late riding Drogon had been, according to Tyrion, a necessary evil. And one, she can see, did not pan out.

 

_“There’s nothing wrong with a little intimidation, Your Grace, let the Lords supporting Cersei know exactly what they will be facing should they refuse to listen to reason.”_

 

_“It is unlikely that all the Lords are on her side, after today the will either force Cersei to accept our offer or pledge to you.”_

 

They were going to play the humility card as well, according to Tyrion; she would appear properly regretful for her tardiness, with a solid excuse to it if she were to be questioned.

 

But none of those plans had been put into motion. No. Daenerys had arrived to face a council that immediately started shooting worried glances her way, and a Cersei who completely ignored her in favor of leveling blank stares at an embracing couple.

 

So had she, once Drogon had landed. Because how could she not? Near two handfuls of moons had passed since meeting Jon Snow, and not once— _not once_ —had he showed as much emotion as she had clearly seen in that embrace.

 

She hadn’t known how to react, even seeing the soilders surrounding the pair frightened had meant little to her. And then the girl, for Daenerys could see she was younger, had set her blue eyes on her person.

 

Piercing blue eyes had stared at her, what even she had to admit was a lovely face framed by even lovelier red hair – a face that gave nothing away, as if carved out of porcelain. This girl stared as she whispered something to Jon Snow, something that made him laugh.

 

Surprising but _oh_ so very genuine, Daenerys had known, her heart fluttering in her chest, and the girl had smiled prettily in response.

 

After that she hadn’t been able to concentrate, at all, too focused on Jon Snow. On how he’d held the girl’s hand to help her sit on the chair that was supposed to be for the King in the North, how he’d stayed right next to her, his hand gripping the back of the chair, until he started explaining the situation, yet always, _always_ with his body angled towards her.

 

She had barely managed to reign in her temper, through all the needless chatter and even through the startling revelation that Jon Snow never _meant_ to bend the knee – she’d nearly snapped at Tyrion that he’d been wrong. So very _wrong_.

 

_He’s not in love with me, he never was!_

 

And he lied and lied and _lied_ about everything. She hates that his obvious dismissal made her heart flutter in a pleasant way, again.

 

“Jon Snow doesn’t have a lover, my Queen,” says Varys, derailing her thoughts.

 

“Then _who_ is that girl?”

 

“Sansa Stark, Your Grace,” says Theon, shuffling his way closer. “She’s his sister.”

 

They all give her curious looks, which she ignores in favor of staring at Cersei’s retreating form, the man who killed her father whispering urgently at her side. Her jaw clenches, the bitter taste of another failure lingering in her mouth.

 

“They look nothing alike,” she says, eventually; they don’t _behave_ like brother and sister, she means to say – Daenerys might not have had the best example on brotherly behavior, horrible that Viserys was, but she _knows_ attraction when she sees it.

 

And she saw it quite clearly simmering between Northern siblings— _supposed_ siblings, she can’t be sure.

 

“Lady Sansa takes after her departed mother, the Lady Catelyn. After the Tullys of Riverrun,” says Varys. “Of all of Ned Stark’s trueborn children, Arya Stark is the only one who bears the Stark look, who looks like Jon Snow.”

 

“Were they close as children?”

 

Theon shifts uncomfortably, but answers nonetheless. “No—no, Your Grace, they weren’t.”

 

“Lady Sansa was always praised for being the perfect Lady,” proceeds Varys. “And perfect little Ladies could not have been seeing with a bastard, even if they are their half-brother.”

 

They certainly are close now, she wants to say—that hug, the way his hand drifted low on her back as he led her away, the _looks_ they shared—but refrains. Not really sure if she wants to bring attention to it.

 

Because what if she is right? Daenerys is no stranger to this – a romantic brother-sister relationship, after all her own parents were siblings. At one point in her girlhood she had expected to marry Viserys. However, as far as she knows, that’s something only Targaryens do.

 

So what if she’s right? The way her guts twist and turn tells her she might not like that outcome.

 

“You said Jon Snow was _trustworthy_ ,” she snaps then, diverting her traitorous thoughts, and giving her Hand a sharp look. “That he was no liar, that he was too _honorable_ to ever try to deceive anyone.”

 

“Yes—”

 

“And it turns out that he’s been lying to me all this time!”

 

“Not everything—” Tyrion stops abruptly once he sees her fierce glare, and tries to backtrack. “—I… I don’t know what happened. Eddard Stark's children, particularly Jon Snow, they are not people prone to deceive. Considering how honorably they were all raised…”

 

“The late Lord Stark did know how to lie, when it would ensure the safety of those he loved,” Varys says.

 

“Yes, you _would_ know that,” replies Tyrion.

 

“Come on then,” she says determinedly, putting a stop to their talk, and starts walking down the path.

 

It is obvious Cersei isn’t coming back, isn’t going to help – Daenerys doesn’t acknowledge the little voice in the back of her head that tells her she _shouldn’t_ march North knowing she could lose her Kingdom, tells her she won’t. Doesn’t acknowledge it and, Jon Snow’s voice echoing all around her, tries so very hard to ignore.

 

“Your Grace, maybe we should think our next move—”

 

“I believe we’ve done enough of that, don’t you? Enough of _thinking_ , enough with your plans that have only landed us in failure,” her voice is sharp, perhaps more than she originally intended—and a part of her, a part of her knows she’s being unfair, however small.

 

But as they stride down the path and she’s yet to catch sight of Jon Snow and his sister, she grows more and more enraged.

 

“I think it’s time we do things my way.”

 

Her narrowing focus at the end of the path make her miss the worrying looks exchanged behind her. Make her miss the frowns and the silence and the tension shared between her advisors. She’s much too concentrated on the sight that awaits her—that unfurls before her. The tender look that this girl, _Sansa Stark_ , gives her brother; the light touch on his arm and his answering smile.

 

Daenerys bristles – that’s no proper interaction between _brother_ and _sister_.

 

Then she sees a big, much too big, white wolf circle the group ahead of her and stop until he blocks their way—she wonders where it came from, wonders if it had been there from the start, she can’t recall. It blocks the path, the view, and were it not for the silence, Daenerys would believe him growling.

 

She stops before reaching their side proper because her dragons fly overhead and their current location makes it difficult for them to land. She stops because the white wolf snarls at her and her company. She stop because, suddenly, she doesn’t know what she thought she could do here.

 

The silence hangs, Jon turns to her but says nothing; he waits. Sansa Stark gives her much the same look that Cersei has during almost the whole meeting, carefully blank, betraying nothing – she curtsies and enunciates a soft ‘Your Grace’.

 

Once, she had thought she could read Jon Snow well enough to catch the changes in his face.

 

Once, she had thought she knew him best, could anticipate his moves.

 

Once, despite this, she had thought there remained enough mystery to him to make him so, _so_ very appealing still.

 

 _Once_ ; not anymore.

 

Because when confronted with the glimpses of openness she has caught—glimpses that seem to come only when in the presence of his sister—Daenerys is forced to admit she truly knows nothing about this man.

 

That while she’s given him a recount of most of her life, he’s done nothing of the sort. Perhaps going as far as keeping his silence even more consciously. She would be willing to bet, this girl, this _Sansa_ , knows more about him than even his Hand. Wonders if that is not another lie, that Davos Seaworth is his Hand.

 

“I’ve heard the rumors, but I found it hard to believe,” Jorah breaks the tense silence then.

 

“Rumors, Ser…?”

 

“Jorah Mormont, Lady Stark.”

 

“Oh,” she blinks. “Ser Jorah, of what rumors do you speak?”

 

Gods, she hadn’t truly imagined, even her voice is lovely.

 

“That there are direwolves within the walls of Winterfell.”

 

“Ah,” something flickers within those blue eyes, but it’s impossible to say with certainty. “There’s only Ghost now,” the girl— _Sansa_ —says, extending a hand in silent beckoning.

 

The wolf follows the command, once again circling the pair before coming to a stop next to the girl’s unoccupied side. It strikes her that the bond between them must be as strong as the one she herself shares with her dragons.

 

“Did they grow extinct?” Daenerys asks; is actually proud of her ability to keep her voice soft and devoid of emotions.

 

Sansa Stark tilts her head to the side, smiling politely. “No, Your Grace, they live in packs but north of The Wall. Ghost is one of a litter of six direwolves, whose mother somehow found her way south,” she pauses, turns her smile at Jon. “Jon found them.”

 

“What happened to the other five?”

 

Jon answers: “Three of them were killed, one died protecting our brother, and the last must be roaming the land.”

 

“Nymeria has a pack of her own in the Riverlands,” adds the girl.

 

Daenerys looks at Jon, then; tries to convey her commiseration, that she knows what it is like to lose a trusted companion. “I am sorry for your loss, Jon.”

 

The very first time she says his name, and _only_ his name; she almost feels giddy.

 

“There’s no need, Your Grace,” he says, an eyebrow lifted in confusion—but it is the use of her title that rankles, crashes her giddiness. “Lady Sansa lost her direwolf, nor I. Ghost is mine.”

 

_Then why does the beast lingers so close about your sister?_

 

The thought, the _tone_ of it, heavy with jealousy – it makes her pause. Pause and recoil little; she’s not like _this_ , she thinks, she oughtn’t _be_ like this. There’s no reason for it—Sansa Stark poses no threat to her in any shape or form.

 

So why the sudden animosity.

 

The silence has stretched far enough, Tyrion steps forward – half a step before the beast forces him to stop, shifting menacingly. “I… do recall, you lost your wolf in the Trident, correct?”

 

“Direwolf, and I didn’t _lose_ Lady, Lord Tyrion, she was taken from me,” her gaze is intent, “your sister pushed for her death.”

 

For a moment their eyes lock again, and Daenerys sees clearly the pain still resonating within Sansa Stark—thinks of Viserion, falling and screeching in agony, and she _understands_ —for a brief instant it almost feel like they understand each other perfectly, she almost wants to reach out and give her arm a gentle squeeze.

 

“It is like losing a child,” she says, absentmindedly.

 

“It is like losing a part of _myself_ ,” is her reply, and it is the most honest and vulnerable she’s seen Sansa Stark be so far, “Lady was a part of me, a very important part I am never getting back.”

 

She tethers on the verge of a crucial point, she knows, can feel it; Daenerys almost smiles in admiration, because this girl has _known_ pain, suffering, it is there—it is clear, and the fact that she’s _survived_. She’s a survivor, she’s outlived her tormentors; that’s worth admiring.

 

But then Jon Snow grabs the hand resting on his arm—and _oh_ she’d forgotten about that—lets his own rest there, atop hers, gives her the softest look she’s ever seen on him and the wolf… the wolf softens too, bumps his head against her shoulder, nuzzles her chin.

 

Something dark and corrosive twists in her gut; all sense of sympathy flees her being.

 

Her stance hardens. “Shall we talk about how you are, once again, in open rebellion, Jon Snow?”

 

She ignores Tyrion’s looks; Varys’ quiet mumbling in her ear; even Jorah’s soft call goes unanswered. All of her focus is on the man standing a few steps ahead of her, his sister on one side and the man who calls himself his Hand on the other, with a couple of soldiers standing with their hands on the pommels of their swords behind him.

 

He doesn’t answer, _frowns_ at her, but remains silent.

 

“Open rebellion.”

 

Sansa Stark seems to have no such problems.

 

“Your brother insisting on calling himself King in the North is as good a declaration of rebellion against the Throne as any,” she says it as if explaining things to a child.

 

 _She is a child_ , Daenerys thinks, _she is younger than me. What does she know about ruling? Perfect little Ladies know nothing about ruling, they only need to bear sons to their husbands and look pretty._

 

It is what had been expected of her, _too_ , once. Before she’d taken control of her life.

 

_With fire and blood._

 

“I am aware of that, _Your Grace_ ,” again, there’s the tilt of her head, “but as it is, you have no Throne to speak of here in Westeros. As such our rebellion is not against you, but Cersei, as she kindly informed us long before you arrived to the shores of Dragonstone.”

 

“My Lady,” of course, Tyrion would jump into the fray of things, “Queen Daenerys is the rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms, she—”

 

“Rightful?” the girl cast a brief glance at her Hand, before focusing again on her. “Why? Because her ancestor decided he needed to put his dragons in action and go on a conquering journey?”

 

"When Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros—”

 

“He brought chaos and fear and destruction into a land that was perfectly happy functioning under seven separate Kingdoms,” she cuts across Tyrion’s sentence mercilessly; were Daenerys not so incensed, she would be something akin to proud. “In the time since Aegon’s Conquest and the fall of the Targaryens Westeros saw more wars than in the thousands of years before it.”

 

Daenerys is quite fed up with people defying her already. “It seems to me, _Sansa Stark_ , that your ancestor was much wiser than you are.”

 

“Because he bent the knee under threat of dragonfire? Much like the surviving soldiers in The Reach, who knelt before you for the same reasons?”

 

What is it with these Starks, and their inexplicable desire to defy her? Why can they just see reason? The rage bubbles within her, and up in the skies, Drogon and Rhaegal screech in response to her agitation.

 

Sansa Stark is not done, it seems. “The reports from The Reach were worrying, _Your Grace_. And confusing, considering the missives Jon has been sending me,” her tone is level, soft and polite, but the steel lurking underneath is something anyone could recognize. “On the one hand, Jon tells me he believes you to have a _good heart_ , that those who follow you see this, _adore_ you for this.”

 

A pause, and then.

 

“On the other hand, the surviving soldiers who escaped and arrived at Winterfell looking for asylum tell me you rode into battle atop a dragon, burned their brothers-at-arms and also the food supply they had gathered for the upcoming winter,” she trails off only to place a hand over the neck of the beast at her side. “They tell me you said you hadn’t come here to _murder_ —a statement that was _immediately_ followed by ‘bend the knee and join me, or refuse and die’.”

 

Her advisors shift uncomfortably around her, but otherwise say nothing and, belatedly, Daenerys thinks it’s because they’re awaiting her cue.

 

“So what does that make you? What am I supposed to think about you?” It is only the shock, that this girl dares to speak such accusations what stays her hand now; Sansa Stark does not stop. “Am I to be a gullible little girl and believe _you_ , indeed, have a good heart? What do you _think_ , Lord Tyrion, I should do after hearing of what happened to the Tarlys? Certainly, you cannot be blind to the hypocrisy.”

 

“Lady Sansa, she gave them a choice,” says Tyrion, through gritted teeth and stepping forward. “She gave them a choice and they chose to die.”

 

For a moment, she wants to smile in triumph, for the girl stay silent for a long while. That is until her face shifts and the disappointment is so potent one would be blind to not see it.

 

“Then how is she any different from Cersei, my Lord?” the question, soft-spoken, might as well have been shouted by how loud it rings about them. “Your _sister_ , who demanded that Jon bend the knee to her or suffer the fate of all traitors – that is death. How is _your_ Queen any better? _Why_ is she better? Because she freed some slaves in Essos?”

 

The girl stops, abruptly, taking a deep breath, and then: “Westeros has no slaves, Lord Tyrion. She hasn’t come to release us—nor save us—from anything, not even the White Walkers.”

 

It shouldn’t _be_ , she’s never felt this agitated, doesn’t understand what it is about this _little girl_ that makes her so. “I am the only one who can save you from those monsters!”

 

“At a price! Otherwise you’ll sit back until you can be assured that no one will take your precious Iron Throne,” her eyes flash dangerously, her voice sharpens; Sansa Stark, apparently, does not fear death.

 

 _That_ , she thinks, eerily calm, _can be easily changed._

 

“You are not our savior, Daenerys Targaryen, you didn’t come here to save us,” the girl proceeds, leaving behind her lapse in emotions. “You came here to _conquer_ us, only it didn’t turn out as you expected because a bigger and more dangerous threat is marching down on all of us.”

 

She catches sight of Jon Snow then, standing tall next to his sister, silent but supporting; one would believe him to be the subject here and not a King, for how he holds his silence.

 

She will not have it.

 

“Have you nothing to say, Jon Snow?”

 

He drags a hand down his face, sighing. “You burned the Tarlys; the father and the brother of a very dear friend of mine. You asked my advice, and disregarded it completely.”

 

Suddenly, she feels the urge to stomp her feet, cross her arms and tell him she didn’t _burn_ down castles and cities—like he asked. But those feel much like the acts of a petulant child.

 

 _I am not a child_ , she thinks, desperately, _I am a Queen. I am the Queen, I shouldn’t have to explain myself to anyone._

 

Curious, how that doesn’t sound quite _right_.

 

“I’m sorry if I led you to believe that I would give you the North, but I was growing desperate,” he says. “Not only because I wanted your help, but because even _with_ your help it seems it won’t be enough to win this. The North alone cannot stop the White Walkers, _that_ is true. But neither can you, alone, or Cersei. It must be a joint effort and if neither of you is willing to place the wellbeing of the people you wish to rule above your selfish desire to possess the Iron Throne…!”

 

And then, he sounds and looks exhausted enough to make her step back.

 

“I don’t know what else to say to make you see reason. I’m not going to keep trying, I do not wish to lose more time,”Jon Snow pierces her with a reproachful glare. “You are not doing us a favor. You should not be asking for anything in return. Doing the _right_ thing – _that_ should be your only motivation to help.”

 

“Allow me to give you piece of advice, Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa Stark’s voice is soothing, soft and gentle when she speaks her name. “If you want the people of Westeros to choose you as their ruler, you must start by gaining their trust; they see you now, they hear about your exploits, and all it brings to mind is the Mad King’s reign.

 

“You do not want to be judged by your father’s sins? Then I suggest you stop walking down the path that will certainly lead you to be like him. Start acting like the benevolent Queen _your_ people say you are.”

 

They are a team, she realizes suddenly. They work together, perhaps not in perfect synchrony, but something just as close. They work together to bring their Kingdom afloat, they trust each other. It is so very obvious now that they—

 

—no.

 

Her chest constrict, painful and merciless, at the sight they present; at the ‘what if’ on her side—no, she won’t finish that thought.

 

Bittersweet; it is better than just bitter. Still hard to swallow but not impossible. She won’t be convincing them of nothing, she knows, would be willing to bet they are ready to die if it came down to it. And this, this is a surrender on her part.

 

A surrender that, for the first time, doesn’t feel like losing.

 

“I never truly knew you, did I, Your Grace?” the surprise is evident, hard to miss and hard to conceal; this is the first time she’s called him by his proper title.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Perhaps, I just saw what I wanted to see,” perhaps she ought to apologize too, for being the child he called her all those moons ago; _perhaps_ , if she’d not blinded herself to the truth, none of this would be happening. “Do not blame yourself.”

 

There are a lot of perhaps hanging in the air, many of which she’s not quite ready to examine. Like the heavy twist of her heart, tugging and tugging and tugging until she feels it cracks.

 

The silence falls over them and she half expects them to ask for her help one last time, her gaze drifts aimlessly until she finds her dragons—the ones that remain with her, the ones she hasn’t lost; and there’s another painful tug—flying over her at a great distance, at ease at last.

 

Daenerys feels a modicum of respect at realizing they won’t ask, not for her help or anything at all.

 

A sort of stilted conversation ensues then, a way to close this day so each party may go their separates ways.

 

“So, what will you do?”

 

Somehow it doesn’t really surprise her that it would be Sansa Stark the one to approach her one last time, though she might have hoped—looking over the girl’s shoulder, she sees Jon Snow having a quiet conversation with Theon Greyjoy.

 

“Will you ask for my help?” Daenerys asks in response.

 

“No, I am merely curious. I can’t imagine being in your place, having achieved the impossible in managing to sail with an army of Dothraki and Unsullied across the Narrow Sea only to…” her hand makes a general enough gesture, but she understands.

 

“Well, you haven’t exactly made things easier for me,” a smirk, and she’s rewarded with a half-smile.

 

“We will only get more stubborn with the passing of time.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, in which she considers asking Sansa Stark whether she is afraid of her dragons, but suspects the girl has seen her fair share of horror, that animals thought extinct are nothing to fear now.

 

“Do you think Cersei will go to Essos?”

 

The Lady Stark hums, turning her gaze skywards. “Truly? I do not know. Before today, I would have said no, but…”

 

Daenerys, too, looks skywards. “But?”

 

“Once, I knew her to desire the Iron Throne above anything else, except for the safety and happiness of her children.”

 

“Her children are dead.”

 

“They are… So, keeping that in mind, I would be inclined to say that no, Cersei will not go to Essos, she might even lie in wait until our armies are weakened before launching her attack.”

 

“Because the Iron Throne is all that she has left, the one thing she’s coveted her whole life.”

 

Sansa turns her eyes on her, before drifting somewhere beyond her shoulder. “Exactly. However, I am no longer so certain about that… I think… I think she does have something _else_ to lose.”

 

Daenerys turns around, spotting the self-proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms walking towards them, and next to her, the Kingslayer.

 

*****

 

Once they cross The Neck, Jon forgoes riding on his loaned horse, opting to sit himself behind her, on her mare.

 

“It’s getting colder,” he says, “I’ve seen you shivering.”

 

It’s all just excuses, she knows, as she tries to keep her racing heart from beating itself out of her chest.

 

The cold keeps their entourage occupied enough with themselves and their gear that no one seems to notice how the King in the North pulls the Lady of Wintefell closer to his chest. How he will grip the reins sometimes in one hand to let the other slide across her to embrace her.

 

They miss her shifting, her burrowing deeper into the warmth of his person; miss how she tilts her head a little to the side and lets him nuzzle her cheek. They miss the way their fingers would entwine sometimes, above her lap or, if the winds are too harsh, pressed against her abdomen under their cloaks.

 

Of course, to their soldiers, their King is merely doing his sister a kindness, in helping her keep the cold at bay; there is nothing improper about it – even if _everything_ about it is improper. But they have no carriages, and Sansa would have refused one anyway, and the men are all really too exhausted to say anything about it.

 

 _We really ought to be discreet_ , she thinks, and then berates herself because, nothing is happening, truly. _Nothing has happened._

 

Even if they both wish it desperately – they’ve decided to wait until there is time to sit down and discuss it. _This_ , what has been simmering between them; because the aftershocks of their actions will affect more than just the two of them.

 

It doesn’t stop them from toeing the line.

 

Or stepping boldly on it. Why, the closest they had come to crossing it had been just this morning when a kiss she had intended for his cheek landed much too suddenly on the corner of his mouth.

 

Perhaps by design – Jon had apologized for moving his head unexpectedly, and she had had no reason to disbelieve his words, even if his eyes told a different story.

 

The closer they get to home the luckier they are with the weather, it seems; the snow falls but not heavy enough to impede their travels. They’ve made good time, nothing has been amiss, and Sansa can be assured that the looming threat has not reached their doorstep yet.

 

Bran would have found a way to let them know, he’d told her as much before she left for King’s Landing.

 

Still, once Winterfell comes into sight, raising tall atop the hills and over the woods, she cannot help the sigh of relief that leaves her.

 

Jon scraps his beard against her jaw, lightly, skimming her skin until he can whisper in her ear: “Home, sweet home.”

 

She shudders, her breath catching in her chest, and shakes her head. Not _yet_ , she wants to say, but fears giving away how much such an action from him has affected her for she knows, she _knows_ her voice would falter.

 

Not that he’s unaware, no. Jon does it _because_ of it, purposely; because he craves her reactions as much as she craves his.

 

To this unexpected bond they are finally free to acknowledge has grown between them—has been growing for a _while_. That has allowed them find peace and joy even with their unspoken words hanging around them, even when sometimes they felt like choking in their longing and pervasive silence.

 

“Are you cold, my Lady?”

 

His lips brush along her ear and she longs to chastise him, the little smile she can feel pulling at his lips proof enough he enjoys tormenting her a little bit too much.

 

“His Grace forgets, I am a daughter of the North,” she replies, tries to be curt yet ultimately fails; it shows, in how she suddenly feels his deep chuckle reverberating against her back. “The cold does not affect me.”

 

Not an exact truth, but not a full lie either. As any other Northern, she can withstand the cold, but it is not immune to it. She takes it better than the Knights of the Vale and the soldiers from the Riverlands do, though.

 

“Then why do you shiver, Sansa?”

 

He presses his cheek to hers, his beard itching; every puff of breath hitting the side of her neck sends shiver after shiver racing down her spine.

 

“You know why,” she whispers, turning her head slightly, letting her own lips grace his skin, if only to show him she could deliver sweet torment just as well as he.

 

There's no mistaking the shudder that rakes his body, nor the way he breathes her in. Sansa wishes they were _alone_ then, if only to indulge in the way his eyes darken for her.

 

The low rumble of his voice sends her heart clattering against her ribcage.

 

“Aye, I know why.”

 

They share a smile and it warms her heart to see it reach his eyes.

 

They’ve talked about his true parentage, since hitting the King’s Road. They’ve talked about what it will mean to his reign in the North – both long term and short term; what it will mean to the realm as a _whole_ , and what it will mean to Daenerys once she finds out her claim on the Throne is not as strong as his.

 

Jon doesn’t want the Iron Throne, or any throne for that matter, he’s made that plenty clear—he keeps insisting that he should abdicate now, though Sansa won’t let him—yet she’s not sure the Southron Queens would believe it. And considering how their meeting in King’s Landing had gone, the very tentative truce they had achieved at last—the promise of uniting to defeat their common enemy, something Sansa won’t believe until she sees their armies marching together.

 

They will probably turn their armies on the North.

 

So most of their talks have been about whether they should reveal the truth or not, whether it would be for the best or not.

 

He wants no more secrets; she thinks they should keep this one among themselves. At least until the threat of the White Walkers has been dealt with.

 

_“You said it yourself, Jon, the living can’t afford to keep fighting any more wars among themselves. Revealing this... will do the realm no good now.”_

 

The undercurrent of longing and apprehension cannot be denied, silent yet ever-present in every one of their talks. Sansa knows why he wants to reveal this truth, knows why she wants it too – she also understands why he won’t press for it.

 

They don’t speak of what this means for _them_ , not openly, never addressing it; always skirting around the issue.

 

But then they don’t speak of what this means for _him_ ; Jon doesn’t want to, chokes up every time they wander too close to the topic of Father— _her_ Father. And she doesn’t insists, is willing to wait until they’re safe within the walls of Winterfell, with Bran and Arya, before pushing for him to deal with it.

 

Because that is one existential crisis that needs to be addressed as a family.

 

Jon straightens then, putting as much distance as possible without throwing himself off the horse, when Brienne comes up to their side, asking if they should send someone ahead to announce their arrival.

 

Sansa agrees, and soon they’re seeing Podrick get progressively smaller as he rushed to complete his task.

 

“There’s no need—”

 

Jon’s complaint is cut short.

 

“There’s every need. Our King is returning after spending many moons away,” she says.

 

Brienne agrees. “Protocol dictates it, Your Grace.”

 

A couple of hours that feel like nothing at all, they are closing in on the opening gates of Winterfell; Sansa looks up and manages to catch a brief sight of Arya waving enthusiastically from the battlements before disappearing, feels Jon let out a tremulous laugh.

 

She bumps his chest with her shoulder. “Now it is.”

 

“What is?”

 

Flashing him a grin, one he returns, she nods towards their awaiting family.

 

“Home, sweet home.”

 

 *****  
******  
*******


End file.
